


A Touch of Darkfic, Vol. II

by VagrantWriter



Series: Reader Requests [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dehumanization, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Forced Orgasm, Genderbending, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Mpreg, Kidnapping, Light Bondage, M/M, Mild Gore, Multiple Orgasms, Object Insertion, Power Dynamics, Psychological Torture, Public Humiliation, Rough Sex, Sleep Deprivation, Solitary Confinement, Voyeurism, comfort/hurt, fake!fempreg, forced stripping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-03 00:41:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8689909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VagrantWriter/pseuds/VagrantWriter
Summary: More twisted reader requests.Ch 1. Sharing: Ramsay has a birthday present for Damon.Ch 2. Separating: Theon finds out what's worse than Ramsay: nothing.Ch 3. Circling: Ramsay and Robb circle one another.Ch 4. Re-Quickening: Rawley and Roose disagree on what to do about Reek.Ch 5. Rebelling: Balon rebels.Ch 6. Helping: Ramsay helps Theon with a problem.Ch 7. Tendering: Walda walks a dangerous line with Reek.Ch 8. Washing: Reek gets a bath.Ch 9. Entrapping: Walda runs afoul of a serial killer and his dog.Ch 10. Progressing: Ramsay shows off Reek's training progress.





	1. Sharing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TrueOrFalse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrueOrFalse/gifts).



> Fill for TrueOrFalse's prompt:
> 
> _Lately I've been obsessed with the idea of Ramsay/Theon/Damon threesomes so if you wanna write something about that I would be forever grateful...or else Damon and Theon/Reek having a secret thing behind Ramsay's back and then Ramsay finds out, that's always interesting._

Damon could maybe admit he was a little tipsy. Otherwise he might not have followed Ramsay upstairs when he’d called, at least not so _eagerly_. The noise of the party continued below them, music thrumming through the uninsulated floorboards. Nobody would be able to hear anything else in the house. Nobody would notice they were gone, and if they did notice, they wouldn’t care.

“How are you enjoying the party?” Ramsay asked as they walked down the hallway. The house was Victorian, obviously, because when your father was Roose Bolton, of course you lived in a house fit for a vampire. Nothing was standard size, all built before anyone gave a shit about that sort of thing, and the walls were so narrow that Damon kept bumping into them.

“Great,” Damon answered as he nearly knocked another picture off the wall. All these black and white photographs of long-dead Boltons, not a single one of them smiling. Even the Addams family fucking smiled! He paused to right the picture he’d knocked askew, then hurried to catch up with Ramsay. “Thanks for offering your house. I know how uptight your old man is.”

Ramsay smiled over his shoulder. He had so many different kinds of smiles; you could tell his mood by his smile. This was his congenial one. His safe one. “It’s my pleasure, trust me.”

“I really appreciate it anyway.” _Especially since you were so pissed at me earlier_ , he thought distractedly. But the incident had been several days ago and hadn’t been brought it up since. Maybe he’d forgotten about it?

The hallway opened up just slightly in front of Ramsay’s room. At least there was enough space for Damon to stand without hunching, but the sense of being hemmed in, trapped, persisted. Ramsay reached for the doorknob and paused, as if thinking. Then turned slowly and graced Damon with another smile. The type he’d given many an unfortunate soul in the past. Not a safe smile.

“I should probably knock,” Ramsay said. “It’s polite to knock.”

Damon felt a thrill of terror run up his spine. So, he hadn’t forgotten. “Rams, look, about the other day—”

“You never know who you could be walking in on.”

Damon swallowed thickly as Ramsay knocked on the door. There was scuffling from inside.

“Oh my, it sounds like we’ve startled Reek. You see, _that’s_ why you should always knock.”

Damon felt his knees lock up.

Ramsay levelled his pale eyes on him, and Damon _thought_ about turning tail and running. Just bolting down the hall, down the stairs, straight out of Dracula’s lair. Of course, if he did that, then he’d have to _keep_ running. Possibly even skip town. Because if he _ran_ , and Ramsay ever saw him again…

“I’m sorry!” he cried. “I really thought you said to come over at two. I—I just—I’m sorry I walked in on you and Reek. I swear, I didn’t even really see anything and I…”

Ramsay narrowed his eyes.

Oh God, he knew! He knew that Damon had jerked himself off afterwards to the image of Ramsay plowing into his pet, to the sound of flesh slapping together and Reek’s desperate gasps. _How_ did he know? Did it matter? Ramsay knew everything. He had a way of knowing these things. Oh God, was Ramsay an actual vampire? Couldn’t they, like, read minds or something?

“I, uh…” Damon took a step back. _Don’t run_. “Maybe I should just…” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder— _rejoin the party_.

“Aww, c’mon.” Ramsay flung an arm around Damon’s shoulder. He had to reach to do it, and Ramsay was not a little guy. The casual observer might think it hilarious that Damon, a man who had to stoop to fit in the hallway, was terrified of anyone. But only if the casual observer had never met Ramsay. “I haven’t given you _my_ present yet.”

“Oh, r-really?” Damon forced a smile. “You didn’t have to get me anything. With the house and the party. Really, I’m—”

“Shh.” Ramsay pressed a finger to Damon’s lips. “I wanted to.” He stepped back, putting himself between Damon and any hope of escape. “It’s inside.”

Damon looked uncertainly over his shoulder.

Ramsay nodded. “Open the door. I want to see your reaction when you see it.”

With a shaking hand, Damon grasped the doorknob. It was loose, in the way those old Victorian doorknobs were. The paint was chipping on the door. The whole house smelled like lead poisoning. Why was he noticing this now? Slowly, he turned the knob. The door creaked open on its own.

He’d seen the inside of Ramsay’s room a hundred thousand times. So it wasn’t all the engraved Victorian furniture or dark colors that caught his attention first. No, it was Reek, pale and naked on Ramsay’s bed. Wrists tied together with red ribbon, a bow on his dog collar. Up on his knees, thighs spread to reveal another bow and ribbon wrapped around the base of his prick, hard and swollen and practically purple. He struggled to maintain eye contact as he belted out, “H-happy birthday, Damon.” He sounded on the verge of tears.

Damon turned back to Ramsay, gawping. Ramsay smiled back at him. The unfortunate smile again. “What do you think?”

 _It’s a trick_ , was what he really thought. One of Ramsay’s games. A lesson of some kind: _You want to fuck my pet? Well, here he is_. He’d have to play this smart.

“Uh…”

Ramsay stepped forward, forcing Damon into the room. “Well? Aren’t you going to unwrap it?”

“Uh…”

Reek sniffled and in an obviously rehearsed way said, “I-if I don’t get a b-big cock in me soon, I think I’ll die.”

Ramsay closed the door behind them. “You heard him. Go stuff him full.”

Damon spun around. He didn’t want Ramsay at his back. “Look, Ramsay, I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. I’m sorry I ever thought about fucking your pet. It was only the one time, I swear.” _Lie_. “It won’t happen again.”

Ramsay was silent a moment. On the bed, Reek gave one little sob before composing himself.

“Damon, I’m hurt. You’re saying you don’t like my present?”

“No, no.” Damon put his hands out defensively. “I mean, I do, I really do. It’s a great present.”

“So you _do_ want to fuck my pet?”

“No! I mean, yeah, he’s fuckable. But he’s…the two of you…” He wheeled his hands around, as if they might magically manifest a solution to this trap. A way out that didn’t end up with Ramsay cutting something off of him.

“It’s fine,” Ramsay said. “Reek’s fine with it. Aren’t you, Reek?”

“Yes, Master. I want Damon’s fat cock in me. A-anyway he wants it. I’m n-not picky.”

“See?”

“But you…”

Ramsay raised his eyebrows. “Me? Why would I object? I’m the one offering.” He threw one arm over Damon’s shoulder, again, and the other hand he pressed against Damon’s chest. “I’m not trying to put you in a bind, Dam. You know I don’t play those sorts of games with my Boys.” _Lie_. “In fact, I want to thank you. I’d been wracking my brain for weeks trying to think of something to get you for your birthday. I was going to get you something boring, like a hooker, but then you walked in on us. The look on your face, man. You should have seen it. I knew right away what to get you.” He took a step back. “I want you to fuck Reek. And all I want in return is to watch.”

“You…want to…?”

“Oh, and I get to tell you what to do to him.” Ramsay’s eyes lit up, like this was _his_ birthday gift. “It’ll be like directing my own porno.”

Was…Ramsay trying out a new fetish or something? Was he branching out, trying to find new ways to debase his pet? Maybe Damon should be flattered that Ramsay had come to _him_ with this, had chosen him out of all the other Boys.

“So?” Ramsay waggled his eyebrows. “Whadya say?”

Damon thought about it a minute. He looked from Ramsay’s shining eyes to Reek on the bed, squirming now. No doubt the ribbon was chaffing. And his dick—had Ramsay stroked him to hardness himself before tying him off? Had Reek been up here this whole time—the party had been in full swing for several hours—suffering quietly but unable to relieve his overwhelming discomfort? That got Damon’s dick twitching.

Ramsay noticed. “Go on. Get on the bed with him. That’s my first order.”

So…Damon did.

He kicked off his shoes and climbed onto the bed. The mattress dipped, and Reek fell over with a startled squeak. Damon was on top of him in an instant, rolling him over on his back, covering the tiny body with his own. He pulled the bound wrists over his head, pinned them to the headboard. Then parted Reek’s legs with his knee and ground his rapidly hardening dick into Reek’s belly.

Reek squeezed his eyes tight, and a few tears broke loose. “Please, d-don’t be g-gentle,” he begged, oh so sweetly.

Damon grabbed Reek’s chin. “That’s up to your Master, sweetheart.” He looked over his shoulder to Ramsay, who had taken a seat at the vanity—a monstrous thing with the carved face of a stern woman over the mirror. Damon could see himself in the mirror’s reflection, like a dog on all fours. He brushed the image from his mind and focused on Ramsay. He wanted Ramsay to know he hadn’t forgotten their agreement. “Tell me what you want to see, Rams.”

“Kiss him.”

Kiss him? Damon wasn’t really into kissing, but he supposed he could do that. He lifted Reek’s chin and claimed his mouth. Reek opened up to let him in, sucked coyly when he plunged in with his tongue.

“Be rough with him. Bite his lip.”

Damon took Reek’s lower lip between his teeth and pulled gently, exposing the pale, receding gums beneath. Reek whimpered.

“Draw some blood.”

Damon bit down harder, until Reek gasped in pain and the taste of copper flooded his mouth. He ran his tongue along the inside of Reek’s lip, lapping up the blood. Ramsay kept his little pet clean, at least in this regard, so there was no danger in it. When in a vampire’s home, act as the vampires do, right?

“How does he taste?” Ramsay prompted.

“Sweet,” Damon said, though sweet was not the right word. He just thought Ramsay might appreciate it that someone else appreciated his things. “So sweet.”

“Play with his nipples. He likes that.”

Damon let go of Reek’s chin and moved his hand to Reek’s right nipple, already hard and peaked from being undressed in a cold room. He moaned when Damon twisted, and if Damon hadn’t been fully hard before, he was now. He pulled the little bud harder, causing Reek to arch his back.

“You can tell him what a little whore he is.”

“Whore,” Damon breathed, flicking the nipple up and down. “Slut. Hungry little cock-gobbler, aren’t you? Can’t wait for me to shoot my load in you, you little cum dumpster. You like it.”

Reek nodded. “I l-like it,” he agreed.

Damon bent down and took the other nipple in his mouth. And bit down until Reek screamed out, thrashing, kicking out uselessly with his legs.

“You’re doing so well, sweetie,” Ramsay said. Damon didn’t know which one of them he was talking to, but he could hear Ramsay undoing the zipper of his jeans. “Keep going, Damon. Open him up. You can use two fingers. He should be fairly open already.”

Damon reached between Reek’s legs, brushed briefly over his dick—where he could feel that Ramsay had put a cockring before tying off the ribbon—slid into the crevice, and searched around for the opening. It wasn’t difficult to find, already slick with lube. It felt like Reek was wet for him. He plunged his fingers in.

Reek gave a startled gasp. Damon’s fingers were undoubtedly bigger than Ramsay’s, but still, if he was making such beautiful noises from just his fingers, what would he sound like when Damon pushed his dick in? Damon found himself moaning alongside Reek.

“Are you scissoring him?”

“Yeah,” Damon responded, voice hitched. “He-he likes it.”

“I’ll bet he does. Are you going to beg him for it, Reek?”

Reek spread his legs wider. “P-please. No more teasing. I need you i-inside. Now.” He closed his eyes and turned his head into the pillow.

Damon unzipped his jeans and started to take his dick out.

Ramsay clucked his tongue in disapproval, and Damon froze.

“Oh, come on, Dam. You gonna fuck him with your pants on? Show some common courtesy.”

Damon looked back. His own questioning expression met him in the mirror’s reflection.

“Take them off.”

He wanted to say something teasing, something biting. _You so eager to see my dick, Rams_? But he kept his mouth closed. In questioning the rules, he’d almost forgotten whose rules he was playing by. It was always dangerous to forget who was in charge when Ramsay was around. Slowly, he got up, balancing on his knees, and started to pull his pants down.

“All the way, Damon.”

This position was not conducive to that. So he left Reek, who was a wet, sweaty mess under him, and sat on the edge of the bed, pulling his pants off, one leg at a time. He dropped them on the floor, then looked to Ramsay to see if he…yes, Ramsay nodded, the boxers too. Damon stood and pulled his boxers down, letting them land beside his pants.

It shouldn’t have been as awkward as it was. Hadn’t he and Ramsay been naked together a thousand times before? All the Boys had seen each other in all imaginable states of undress. And it wasn’t like this was the first time he’d ever fucked someone while others watched. So why did it feel so odd, standing there in only his t-shirt and socks? Why did he want to cover himself, shield his vulnerability from Ramsay?

Ramsay grinned, eyes focused on his cock. Unnervingly so. He had a hand down the front of his pants and was rubbing lazily. “You’ll split him open wide with that.” He nodded to the bed. “Get to it.”

With no more questions, Damon crawled back onto the bed, a little less eager this time, though his hard on hadn’t flagged. He moved back into position and lifted Reek’s legs, folding them back to his chest, which rose and fell in rapid succession. His hole flinched when exposed to the air, red and swollen from all the play, but fluttering eagerly to be filled.

Damon looked to Ramsay.

“Do it,” Ramsay said. “Fuck him.”

Braced on his hands, Damon rammed in. Reek made a choking sound and slammed his head into the pillow, mouth open in a silent scream. His walls clenched tightly around Damon, spasming as they welcomed him in. He slid in with only slight resistance.

“B-big!” Reek gasped. “You’re so big. F-filling me up. Ughn.”

“Gods, Ramsay, you teach him how to talk from watching hentai?”

“F-feels so good,” Reek continued, and it was difficult to tell if he was lying. Tears were streaming pretty freely down his face now, and he was trembling uncontrollably. But that was part of his charm. He loved the pain of it, the debasement. Everyone knew it.

“You can move now,” Ramsay said.

Damon gave a shallow, exploratory thrust.

“He’s not a China doll.” There was an edge of Ramsay’s voice. “He won’t break. He can take a pounding. Could probably take a jackhammer up there and still beg for more. Fuck him _hard_ , Damon.”

So, Damon did. He pulled his hips up and snapped them back with as much force as he could muster. Reek screamed, a mixture of pain and pleasure, and his hands gripped the metal bars of the headboard. Damon did it again. And again, until he had a steady rhythm going and Reek was a panting mess.

“Yes, just like that,” Ramsay said. “Really punish him. Really make him know he’s only here for _your_ pleasure. _Your_ amusement.”

“That’s right,” Damon grunted out, gripping Reek’s hips so he could bury himself even deeper. “Little whore. Little slut. Look at you. All desperate and undone. More like a wild animal than a person. You should see yourself in the mirror.”

Smirking he looked over his shoulder, searching out Ramsay. He had a suggestion for Ramsay’s porno: Make Reek look at himself in the vanity mirror, force him to look at his own tear-streaked face as Damon undid the cockring and made him come.

Instead, he saw his own reflection. His bare backside, rendered ridiculous by his shirt and socks. On his hands and knees, his own hole on display for Ramsay as his balls slapped against Reek’s skin. The room became very quiet as he stilled his movements, as his own animalistic grunting died away. Only Reek’s whimpering and Ramsay’s furious movements under his waistband filled the void.

And Ramsay, staring straight at him, smiling through closed lips.


	2. Separating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Preztles asked: 
> 
> _Can I request a fic where Ramsay has kidnapped Theon? Ramsay's been beating and raping him, but that doesn't seem to be breaking him, so Ramsay leaves him in solitary confinement. Ramsay only comes in to leave a plate of food, or passes it under the door. Every day, Theon can hear Ramsay's footsteps outside. But he never comes in. this continues until Theon is emotionally and psychologically broken, desperate for any sort of human contact and sound besides his own voice that he begs Ramsay for contact and for sex, just so he won't have to be alone anymore._

**Day 1**

Day 1 was actually Day 28. It had been nearly a month since his captor had picked him up hitchhiking along the road. Not that Theon knew that. In a windowless basement, he had no way of counting time, no way beyond his captor’s steady visits.

Theon had thought nothing was worse than these visits. Being chained to a wall, stripped, starved, beaten, raped. And he’d been right. Nothing _was_ worse.

Not at first, no. At first it had been a relief. Unlocked from the chain and dog collar, tossed into the back room. Left alone. Untouched. He’d sat with his back to the wall, watching the door, waiting for _that man_ to come back. But he hadn’t.

 

**Day 2**

Theon explored his cell. He didn’t even have to get up to do it. He could see everything from where he sat.

Bare walls, cracked here and there. Bare fluorescent lighting overhead, which illuminated everything. Better than sitting in shadow. No windows, predictably. In the far corner, a spigot. Low to the ground, meant to filling buckets. Water dripped from the faucet, rolled down the slightly inclined floor, and disappeared down the drain in the center. The door was made of thick metal, with an obviously makeshift opening near the bottom.

There was nothing else.

Theon drank. And when his bladder was full, he emptied it down the drain.

Eventually, he heard his captor’s footsteps on the stairs and readied himself. He wasn’t able to fight as well as he had when he’d first been brought here, but he put up what resistance he could. Even if it was just turning his head when his captor wanted a kiss.

He tensed what muscles he had left.

The slot at the bottom of the door slid opened, and a metal bowl was pushed through. It scraped against the concrete floor. Then the slot closed and the footsteps turned and receded.

Theon sat still for a moment, watching the slot. Then he got up and retrieved the bowl.

Dog food. The same fare his captor had been feeding him from Day 1. (Actual Day 1, not Day 1 that was actually Day 28.)

He used to refuse the kibble, but days without eating had a way of breaking down one’s resolve. The thought had crossed his mind more than once, in the hours since he’d been locked in this little box-room, that his captor meant to starve him to death. Because he was obviously frustrated that Theon continued to fight him.

There were faster ways to kill a man though. Or maybe that was the point?

 

**Day 3**

The lights had not gone off. Not once.

Theon rolled onto his side and pressed his head into the corner for any semblance of darkness.

But the lights still buzzed. Constantly.

The tap in the corner dripped. All the time. A steady rivulet rolled down the drain to join his waste. He could only imagine how foul it all smelled.

His body was beyond exhausted. It wanted sleep more than anything. And yet he could not sleep.

When he heard the footsteps this time, he banged on the door. “Why are you doing this?”

No answer.

“If you’re trying to drive me crazy, you’ll have to try _a lot_ harder.”

No answer, but he might have heard a chuckle.

Another bowl of dog food slid through the slot. Then his captor went away again.

 

**Day 5**

Theon tried talking to his captor.

Okay, what they’d been doing before, during the first 28 days, hadn’t been talking. As such. His captor had introduced himself. “You can call me Ramsay.” Like hell. “And according to your driver’s license, your name is Theon Greyjoy.”

“Really?” Theon scoffed. “You’re trying to Stockholm syndrome me? You think you can build a rapport with me?”

“I think you need someone to connect to.” His captor knelt down to be on his level, but just beyond the reach of the chain’s length. “I know that you’re a very lonely little boy, Theon. You must be, to have been walking on the highway by yourself like that, despite all the contacts on your cellphone. What’s wrong? Not one of them would come pick you up?”

“Service was bad,” Theon answered. “Couldn’t get hold of any of them.”

His captor smiled. “Yes, of course. And where were you headed? North, like you told me in the car? Or were you really just that keen to get to that particular gas station in the middle of nowhere? Had someone important to meet, is that it? Does anyone even know you’re gone, Theon? Does anybody even care?”

“You really like the sound of your own voice, don’t you?” Theon shot back.

On Day 5 of being in the box—again, not that he could tell—when he heard his captor’s footsteps, he banged on the door. “Ramsay!”

The footsteps stopped.

“That’s what you want me to call you, isn’t it?”

No answer.

“How long are you going to keep me in here?”

No answer.

The slot opened.

Theon pushed one of the empty dog bowls out. “Here. Is this what you want? I can cooperate.”

A new dog bowl slid in.

The slot closed.

His captor walked away.

 

**Day 7**

Theon talked to himself until his voice gave out. At first he just sang, anything to cover the sound of the lights and the dripping tap. He sang anything that came to mind, sometimes just repeating the chorus again and again until the words lost all meaning.

Then he started talking to himself, telling himself that his captor couldn’t keep him in here forever, that eventually he would have to bring him out or kill him. He counted numbers and recited poetry and explained the plots of movies he’d seen.

He talked to people he imagined. He talked to Robb, and Asha, and his father. He yelled at them, raged at them for turning their backs on him, then cried and begged them forgiveness for turning his back on them.

 

**Day 9**

They started talking back to him. Whispering from the walls, telling him how he was stupid to have thrown away every good thing in his life, how if he’d just stayed and worked out his problems with Robb he’d still be back there now.

They told him he deserved this.

 

**Day 11**

Theon woke up.

Slept for twenty minutes.

Woke up.

Slept for twenty minutes.

Woke up, ate the food his captor slid through the door.

Slept for twenty minutes.

 

**Day 12**

Was just like Day 11.

 

**Day 13**

Was just like Day 12

 

**Day 14**

He tried to kill himself several times. He banged his fists against the wall until they were bloody. He gathered water in the dog dish and tried to drown himself. He tried to bash his brains in by running headlong at the wall, but only managed to knock himself out.

He woke up feeling dizzy and nauseous. He’d called out for help in his weak, broken voice. He didn’t want to die. Not in here. Not alone.

“Please,” he’d begged when his captor had come that day. “Please let me out. I won’t fight you anymore. I’ll be very good.”

No answer.

“Please! I’m dying. My head…”

The food slid through the slot.

The slot closed.

His captor walked away.

 

**Day 15**

Theon kept the wounds on his knuckles open, picking at them whenever they scabbed over. He used the blood to draw things on the wall. Not great things. He really wasn’t bleeding that much. But things like words and crude faces. He thought he did a very passable picture of Robb’s face.

He woke up from his twenty-minute nap to Robb whispering at him that it was a good thing he’d never wanted to be an artist. That was just something else he’d fail at.

 

**Day 17**

Theon lay with his face to the wall.

He didn’t eat the food his captor pushed in.

 

**Day 18**

Was the same at Day 17.

 

**Day 19**

Was the same as Day 18, except he ate the three bowls of food that had piled up.

Starving himself to death was harder than he’d thought.

 

**Day 20**

He hadn’t bathed since he’d been kidnapped, and now the drain was beginning to back up. Some of his teeth had started to rot. He found bits of hair in the corners of the room. His own hair.

He crawled to the slot in the door and lay there, with his mouth near the opening. “Please,” he whispered when his captor came next. “Please kill me.”

 

**Day 21**

“Please kill me.”

 

**Day 22**

“Please kill me.”

 

**Day 23**

“Please say something.”

 

**Day 24**

“Please touch me.”

 

**Day 25**

“Please let me touch you.”

He reached out a weak hand through the slot, which did not immediately shut on his fingers. He groped around on the floor outside the cell, feeling for his captor’s boots.

“Please let me feel you. I…I want to have your hands on me. I want to…feel you. Inside me.”

No answer.

“I’ll be so good. You’ll see. I’ll worship you. Every inch of you. Please let me please you.”

He grasped at air.

Then heard something new. It was almost like he’d forgotten there were other sounds beyond the buzzing of lights and the dripping of water. This was a metal sound. The sound of a lock _un_ locking.

He drew his hand back at the door opened.

There was his captor.

There was Ramsay.

Theon sobbed in relief.

He reached out, but Ramsay took a step back. Theon whimpered in panic and crawled forward. Ramsay smiled, and Theon understood. Yes, he was supposed to go. So he did.

He crawled to Ramsay, body trembling. Ramsay sat on the stairs and watched. Just watched. Theon longed to hear his voice.

He crawled to Ramsay and laid his head on his lap. Reached for the zipper of his pants.

His captor gently brushed his hands away. “There will be time for that later, pet.” A voice! A human voice!

His captor—his savior—ran a hand through his matted, thinning hair. Theon nuzzled into it and cried with such relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Next update should be on Saturday.


	3. Circling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BlueSilver asked: 
> 
> _How about an Alpha/Omega AU where after the Greyjoy rebellion, Theon, an omega, is forced to marry Robb, an alpha. Although Robb is in love with Theon, Theon only sees him as a brother and he's in love with Ramsay. Throughout the marriage, Theon and Ramsay, also an alpha, have a secret relationship. Bonus for possessive and jealous Ramsay._
> 
> A/B/O fics will always be a guilty pleasure of mine, though I've never written one before. If you're unfamiliar with A/B/O, I'm afraid I don't have enough room to explain it here. You can read up on it [here](https://fanlore.org/wiki/Alpha/Beta/Omega).

Robb waited for the bastard to get up to use the privy, then excused himself from the feast and followed. When Ramsay came out of the privy, relaxed and unaware after a good piss, Robb slammed him up against the wall hard enough for his head to bounce off of Winterfell’s stones.

“You’ve got some nerve showing your face around here,” he growled.

Ramsay was stunned for a moment. Then realized who’d attacked him and laughed. “Robb Stark. Is this how guests are treated at Winterfell?”

“You’re not welcome here.”

“Your raven _did_ say House Bolton was invited.”

“You’re not a Bolton.”

Ramsay grinned at him.

Robb’s knuckles grew white with how tightly he held onto the bastard’s collar, wishing it were his neck instead. “I should have you killed.”

“Whatever for?”

“You know _exactly_ what for. Theon may have covered for you—Gods know why—but you and I _both_ know what happened.”

“Oh? Maybe you’ll elucidate.”

Robb snarled and slammed Ramsay against the wall, to the satisfying crack of skull on stone. “He wasn’t a ‘guest’ at your castle. Theon wouldn’t just up and leave like that on his own. Not without his servants and guards. Not without—” _Not without me, his husband_. “You kidnapped him. You _kept_ him there.”

“And?” Ramsay prompted, still smiling.

“You raped him.”

“Ah, there it is. Out in the open.” Ramsay reached out and pried Robb’s hands off his collar. “You must have little faith in your husband to suspect he would drop his pants at the soonest whiff of a virile stranger.”

“He wasn’t unfaithful.” Robb would not allow his hands to be pried off. He gripped tighter. “You _raped_ him.”

“And yet he says nothing happened.”

“Because he’s afraid of dishonoring me.”

“And are you? Dishonored by him?”

“Of course not! It’s not his fault what happened. It’s yours. And if I had it my way, if Theon hadn’t _begged_ otherwise, I’d have your head on a pike on the walls of Winterfell. I’d have done it months ago. I could still have it done, tonight.”

Ramsay laughed again. “You want to know why your dear Theon begged you to spare my life?” He leaned his head back against the wall, mouth open in mirth, as if it were so funny he couldn’t quite get it out. “Because _he’s_ the one who begged me to take him. Begged me to rip him apart, fill him until he choked on my seed. He was insatiable. That’s why I had to take him back with me, because he couldn’t get his fill in that forest clearing where I met him. Out on a hunt with his little bow and arrow.”

“You’re lying.”

“He was so _tight_. Like you hadn’t been in there at all. I admit I did wonder if the rumors were true, that your marriage bed was as cold as a Silent Sister’s cunt in Winter.”

“Shut up!”

“Though there were…other rumors. I’m sure there was some debate among the maesters whether your husband’s womb was a barren rock or it was your pinprick prick that was the problem. I guess we put those rumors to rest though, eh?”

Robb punched Ramsay in the face. His nose crunched, and Robb’s fist came away with blood. He punched again.

Ramsay laughed as his face blossomed with red. “I bet you fucked him the second he got back. I bet you took him right in the great hall when they led him in, before he’d even had a chance to clean my seed from his thighs. You had to be sure. If anything started growing in his belly, you had to be sure it was yours. Or at least have plausible deniability.”

Robb punched him again.

“It’s…” Ramsay paused to spit out a wad of blood. “It’s a good look on him. All swollen and ripe and ready to pop. He’s positively radiant. If I were you, I’d keep him like that as much as I could. Make sure there’s a pup in him all the time. That is…” He looked down at Robb’s crotch. “If you can manage it.”

Robb raised his fist to punch him again, then reconsidered. He released Ramsay, who stumbled and gripped the wall for support, still laughing. “I _will_ kill you one day. That’s a promise.”  He curled his lip into a grimacing smile. “But for right now, I’m content with the knowledge that you will _never_ touch him again.”

Ramsay’s laughter died away.

“I’m going to protect him from you. He’s not even going to have to _look_ at you tonight. And if you try to get close to him…” He bared his canines. “I’ll have you castrated.”

Ramsay’s smile faded into a scowl, and for a moment Robb thought he might lash out. He didn’t though, just remained there, gripping the wall.

Robb took a step back and fixed his collar. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I intend to enjoy the rest of the evening. _My husband_ is waiting for me, you see.”

Ramsay snarled, a punishable offense coming from a lesser vassal. Robb could have him flogged for it, but truthfully, he didn’t want any attention brought to this man tonight. It would only cause Theon more pain to see his abductor here, and he’d already been through so much. So quiet and withdrawn since his return home. Robb decided instead to have one of his guards stand between Theon and Ramsay at all times until the feast was over. Hopefully the threat of force would be enough to keep the bastard from trying anything.

“Get yourself cleaned up,” Robb instructed, then turned and walked away. “We’re done here.”

Ramsay was determined to get the last word in. He followed after Robb, only a pace or two, but enough to set his hackles on edge. “Yes, go join _your husband_ ,” he spat. “I do wonder, though, whose _eyes_ the babe will have. When it’s born. What color blue. And I know you’ll be wondering too.” He gave a pathetic attempt at a nonchalant shrug. “I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Next update should be Tuesday.


	4. Re-Quickening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carrot Flowers said: 
> 
> _May I request a sequel to the first fic in the first darkfic collection, the genderbent one where Myranda/Myrdden got Theon/Thea pregnant? Thank you!_
> 
> Sequel to [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6175846/chapters/14149453) story.

Rawley stormed into her father’s study. “Did I hear your little pigeon correctly? You _demand_ my presence? I am not some cur you can summon at your—”

Roose cut off her tirade with a stare.

She stood, rooted in the doorframe, awkwardly looking everywhere but into his eyes. “I don’t have time for one of our talks,” she muttered darkly. “Reek is—”

“I know,” he interrupted. “Which is why I called you here.” He gestured to the chair opposite his desk. “Sit.”

She contemplated turning and walking away. She contemplated telling him to go fuck himself. In the end she sat, glowering at him.

He was not in the mood for games, it seemed—much to her relief—because he cut straight to the matter. Didn’t drag it out by continuing to read a book or pretending to write a letter of utmost importance. He folded his hands in front of him and said, plainly, “Maester Tybald has informed me that he expects the labor to be difficult. You have not kept your pet well, and as a result, she may very well die welping your stable hand’s bastard.”

Rawley fidgeted in her seat. “That’s why I need to be there.”

“Whether the Greyjoy girl survives the birthing is not my concern,” he went on, as if she hadn’t spoken.

Rawley was quiet. Seething, but quiet. _That is not her name. Greyjoy? There is no Greyjoy at the Dreadfort. Her name is Reek, and the child in her belly is not a bastard, it is mine._

 “I am more concerned about the survival of her welp. If it is a boy, it will be the only living male of Balon Greyjoy’s line. It will be the bargaining chip we need for pushing the remainder of the Ironborn from our lands.”

Rawley stood, knocking the chair back. “You mean to give my child to those savages? My heir?”

Roose stared impassively at her. “How long do you intend to keep this delusion going, Rawley? I feel I have indulged your fantasies long enough. Now it is time to set them aside and take the matter seriously.”

“Delusions? Fantasies?” Rawley leaned heavily on the desk. “The babe in Reek’s belly is mine. I know you will never recognize it as your grandchild, but that—”

“The babe in Thea Greyjoy’s belly,” Roose said, over-enunciating, “is a bastard, the union of a kennel master’s son violating a highborn lady. Perhaps you’ve managed to convince yourself otherwise. Perhaps you’ve even managed to convince your creature otherwise. But you cannot infect the entire North with your madness, and even if you could, I would put you down long before I allowed that to happen.”

Rawley curled her lip.

“You need to produce a legitimate heir. From your own loins, not your twisted mind. Which means you will need to get married.”

“I’ll marry Reek.”

“No.” He pinned her with his gaze, and she found herself looking away again, despite her resolve not to. “You will be marrying Bran Stark.”

“Bran…?”

“Or at least a passing imitation. An ally of mine has found a red-haired boy, about the Stark boy’s age. He had to be hobbled, of course, to make the charade all the more convincing. For a time it was advantageous to us to have the North believe Thea had killed him and the youngest Stark boy. That time has passed. Bran Stark will be arriving in a fortnight. You will claim him as your Lord husband and produce one male heir, though two is preferable. He is a sickly boy, though, and will die soon after, leaving you as the Lady of Winterfell.”

“But—”

“Your children will have both Bolton and Stark blood. You will settle down to raise them. No more gallivanting off, tearing across the countryside with those whores you’re so fond of. Should you feel the need to indulge in your hobbies, you will keep them discrete. This is your last chance to rein yourself in. Am I making myself clear?”

Rawley stared into her lap, clenching and unclenching her fists. “What about Reek?”

“If the girl survives…she will be married to a highborn lord to tie up loose ends with the Greyjoys.”

Rawley gritted her teeth so hard that her jaw creaked. “And the child…if it is a girl?”

“I have no use for yet another bastard girl.”

Rawley nodded. Not in agreement. “I see.”

“Do you?”

She nodded again. “I understand, Father. May I be excused?”

He contemplated her for a moment, then offered a simple tilt of the head. “You may.”

Rawley walked from the room, but the minute she was in the hall, she took off running. Back to her bed chamber, where Reek’s screams met her from the hallway. She threw the door open, startling the maester and the midwife. “How is it going?”

“Well, so far,” Maester Tybald said. “It appears she may pull through.”

“Push!” the midwife said, and Reek wailed.

Rawley came around the side of the bed and gripped Reek’s hand. Reek gripped back, with more force than Rawley thought her capable of. Gods, she was beautiful in her pain.

Rawley tucked a strand of sweat-soaked hair behind her ear. “Don’t you worry, Reek,” she said. “You are going to make a wonderful mother to our child.”

The bones in her hands pressed together as Reek squeezed. Rawley allowed it and contemplated the knife she kept in her dresser drawer, usually meant for drawing blood from Reek. There was enough blood now, though, covering the sheets and the midwife’s hands as she drew the bawling babe from its mother’s womb.

Immediately, Reek’s grip went slack, and she collapsed into the pillows with a sigh, panting.

“It’s a girl,” the maester exclaimed.

Rawley’s felt her tongue go dry. “Did you hear that, Reek? We have a daughter.” She bent and pressed a kiss to Reek’s forehead. “I know some mothers worry about bringing daughters into this world, but you needn’t worry.” Her father’s face flashed in her mind, and her hand itched for her knife. “I promise that I will protect her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Next update will be Thursday.


	5. Rebelling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sarah asked: 
> 
> _Could you do one from Theon's perspective where he is about to be executed? Could be either from fire by Stannis or a sword by Ned._
> 
> Oh, my poor little baby.

Robb was there, and Theon promised himself he wouldn’t cry. But then they brought out the block of wood and Robb started crying. And Theon couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

He felt hot tears on his face and a strong hand on his shoulder. “Come now, lad. Face it with some dignity.”

But he couldn’t. Not when they were whisking Robb away and Lord Stark was standing there, leaning on Ice, which would soon be covered in blood. His blood. He’d seen other executions, how the blood spurted. How the heads rolled. How they dragged the bodies away and buried them in shallow graves befitting criminals.

He turned to Rodrik Cassel, whom they’d assigned to lead him to the execution. “Please, I don’t want to die.”

Cassel urged him forward, towards the block. Theon dragged his feet, but a thirteen-year-old couldn’t put up much resistance against a grown man. Against a group of grown men, and some of the servants who had come to watch. Morbid curiosity and all that. There had to be plenty of witnesses. Spread the word back to Balon: You may not sow but _we_ do not bluff.

They’d told him last night. Catelyn though it would be kinder to give him time to prepare; Ned thought it would be kinder if he didn’t. They’d compromised, agreed not to drag it out. Maester Luwen had been the one to break the news, and he did so with the gentleness he used in his lessons, though his voice began to crack at the end when he’d asked if Theon understood what this meant.

“Yes,” Theon answered.

Maester Luwen smiled sadly and patted his knee and stood. After he left, Theon heard him talking with Lord and Lady Stark just outside his door. “He’s processing it,” the old man’s voice drifted under the locked door. “I’m not sure it’s fully sunk in yet.”

“Let me talk to him,” Catelyn said.

“With all due respect, my Lady, I don’t think that’s a good idea. He’s in shock. It’s best he’s left alone for the moment.”

“Oh, Ned, this is too cruel. Imagine if it were our son, so far from home.”

“I am,” Ned said. His voice was as flat and cold as ice. “I’m _doing_ this for our son, Cat. So that when he becomes a man, anyone who would depose him will understand what the word of the Warden of the North is worth.”

No one spoke for a moment.

“Can I at least ask him what he would like to eat?” Catelyn finally said. “I’ll have the kitchens prepare anything he wants.”

“Come now, Cat. The boy will not want to eat. Don’t make this harder on him or yourself.”

They’d left after that, and left Theon alone. With his thoughts and his room. Maester Luwen was right; he hadn’t really processed it. And Ned was also right; he didn’t want to eat. Nor did he want to sleep. Nor did he want to cry. So he didn’t.

He didn’t cry all night. And he didn’t cry when the guards came to get him, blessedly first thing in the morning. They were a bit startled to see what he’d done to his room, probably thought he’d ripped everything apart in a temper tantrum. Actually, he’d spent most of the night hiding his stuff—his clothing, his jewelry, his books—anywhere he could think of. Because between the two possibilities of what would happen to it all when he was dead—they’d either send it back to Pyke, to his mother, or else burn it—he suspected burning was most likely, and he did not like the thought that his existence could be erased so easily. Better that he hide things—under the floorboards, between the mattresses, behind loose stones in the wall—so that just a little bit of him might remain. Maybe someday, a hundred years in the future, some Stark would find his kraken brocade and think, “Ah, so this is the room Theon Greyjoy stayed in. This is the room where he spent his last night.”

And he hadn’t cried as they’d led him to the chopping block, though he was scared. More scared than he’d even been in his life. More scared than he’d _ever_ be, considering these were his last moments. But he hadn’t cried. Not until Robb had.

And then Robb was whisked away, despite the fact that Lord Stark always made him watch these executions. Only Jon, the bastard, was left, staring at him open-mouthed. Theon hated that Jon would see him like this, crying and begging for his life. He hated even more the look of pity on his face.

There was no pity on Ned’s face. No emotion at all. He nodded to the chopping block.

Theon stared up at him and tried to speak around his tears. “Please,” he said. “Please, I’ll go away. I promise. No one will ever see me again and you can tell them you did it.”

Ned said nothing, and when Theon didn’t get to his knees, Cassel pressed down on his shoulders until he knelt, hovering over the block of wood. The crowd murmured in disapproval, though who at, Theon couldn’t say.

“Do you have any last words, lad?” the man holding him down said.

“I’m scared.”

Theon pressed his face to the wood. Newly cut, rough but sweet-smelling. Nobody had lost their head here before him. He closed his eyes.

“I, Eddard Stark, Warden of the North, do condemn you, Theon Greyjoy, to death.”

Theon heard the swish of the sword. He never felt it touch his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Next update will be Saturday.


	6. Helping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anna's request was: 
> 
> _So! It would be really awesome if you wrote something in which Theon suffers from PGAD, which stands for persistent genital arousal disorder... Ramsay of course has every intention to work this for his own amusement if you know what I mean._

The whore sucked and Theon Greyjoy screamed and Ramsay smiled. The whore came up for air and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Mostly saliva, it looked like. The Boys leaned in eagerly, waiting for her to confirm. “He’s been shooting empty for _twenty minutes_ , m’Lord,” she said. “My jaw’s begun to hurt.”

“Fine, take a break,” Ramsay sighed in annoyance. What sort of whore lost her stamina after just a few hours? He still hadn’t decided if he was going to pay her and let her go or else kill her. He’d leave it up to the Boys. “Damon, why don’t you pay her and show her out?”

Damon grinned. “Aye, will do.”

The whore stood, and as she got dressed, Greyjoy sagged against the saltire in relief. Ramsay watched his face, had been watching his face this whole time, while the Boys were more interested in what was happening between his legs. They hadn’t believed him at first, just how freakish Ramsay’s new acquisition was.

It seemed that once Theon Greyjoy got hard, he had a _very_ difficult time getting it back down. Even after orgasm. One hour, two hours. Ramsay had never seen anything like it.

So, this was where Greyjoy got his reputation as an insatiable sex fiend. Funnily enough, it seemed to bring him more pain than pleasure. Ramsay was a connoisseur of screams, and the scream Greyjoy had released just now, with the whore’s mouth wrapped around him, that had been pure pain.

Damon and the other Boys escorted the whore from the dungeons. Ramsay anticipated he would never see her again, one way or the other. He was more interested in his prize, hanging spread eagle on the cross with his swollen cock hanging heavy and chaffed between his legs. Ramsay sidled up next to him and took it in his hand. The sound Greyjoy made, the way his head lolled back as he realized the session wasn’t over…Ramsay got hard too.

“You lucky dog,” he drawled, giving a rough pump. “To think, you were hiding this from me the whole time. This…remarkable ability of yours.” Greyjoy whined low in his throat and tossed his head the other way. “I thought you _trusted_ me, Lord Greyjoy.”

“Please…stop. It…hurts.”

“But you’ve come, what, seven, eight times from this session alone?” He leaned in so his lips were merely a hair’s width from Greyjoy’s ear. “What did you think of our lady companion, hmm? Despite all her hard work, she didn’t seem to bring you any satisfaction at all.”

Greyjoy started crying. His whole body shook, but no tears came. It seemed his cock wasn’t the only thing that had run dry.

Ramsay wetted his lips and appreciated the way it made Greyjoy shudder, being so near to his ear. “Perhaps you just need someone with…more skill. Someone who knows you more intimately.” He let go of Greyjoy’s cock and sank to his knees.

Greyjoy watched him in horror. “No, no, please, I can’t, I can’t.”

“You don’t have to do anything.” Ramsay gripped the purple-red member by the root. “Just let me do all the work.”

Greyjoy was in a true panic now, fighting against his bonds with renewed energy. “Y-your men will come back. They’ll—”

“Find out I’m a cocksucker?” Ramsay scoffed. “They could walk in on me getting fucked in the arse by three different men and wouldn’t say a thing.” He paused to smile up at his victim before quickly taking him in his mouth.

Now, it was true that Ramsay had not had much occasion to suck cock before. There was no pleasure to be derived from it on his part. But the way Greyjoy screamed and bucked his hips—away, not towards—that went straight to his dick.

“It hurts!”

Ramsay didn’t care.

A wretched moan rose up and out of Greyjoy’s throat, more of a gargle really. Like his mind was so broken by the overload of pain and pleasure that he could only make these little animalistic sounds.

“Pleeease,” he whined, and it just sounded so _wrecked_. “Why are you doing this?”

How did he expect Ramsay to answer with a cock in his mouth? So instead, he just took him in farther, experimenting with his lips.

“Ah!” Greyjoy’s breathing grew erratic. His chest, stretched out as it was, began to rise and fall rapidly. “I-I need to—I’m going to—” He twisted madly against the ropes holding him. Sinews stood out on his arms, and his face grew red with exertion. Honestly, Ramsay was amazed he had enough blood in his head for it. “Fuck!”

Ramsay grinned about the dick between his lips.

Greyjoy fired a single, weak spurt into his mouth. Hardly anything. Still, it surprised Ramsay that he had anything left, after they’d been at this for hours. He held it on his tongue for a second, trying to determine its flavor. It didn’t have one. Not really. Saltwater, maybe. Not even worth swallowing. He swallowed it anyway and released Greyjoy’s cock.

It sprang out with a wet plop, as hard as ever. Ramsay watched it for any signs of softening, but it didn’t.

“Tsk,” he sighed, standing. “I guess I’m not your magic prince after all.”

Greyjoy let his head fall against his chest and just sobbed.


	7. Tendering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marie said: 
> 
> _I'd like to request one where Reek is severely broken after everything that's happened to him and after a particularly bad beating by Ramsay and the boys, Walda takes pity on him and sneaks him out of the kennels and gives him some much needed comfort._
> 
> I didn't follow the prompt exactly to the T, but there is definitely hurt and comfort.

Walda knew she should not be up and about—the maester had been very clear on the matter, what with her being so close to delivery—but she could not stand. One. More. Minute in that awful, sweat-soaked bed. And in that bedroom, which didn’t have a bit of color to it anywhere. Or this whole castle. Or this whole region. It felt as though she had not seen any color since she’d left the Twins, and though she tried to remain upbeat, some days it felt as though she would never see any color ever again.

It was so disappointing, given her new House’s colors were pink and red.

She waddled down the hall, one hand on her belly, the other against the wall to steady herself. She wondered what it would be like to raise a child in such a grim place. In her childhood fantasies, she’d always dreamed of marrying a handsome knight who would whisk her away to a shining castle. He would tell her how beautiful she was, and how very wrong her sisters and cousins had been when they told her she was ugly and fat and that nobody would ever love her.

She rounded the corner and stopped short. Lying there, in the middle of the hallway, was a body. Just…sprawled there. In a puddle of blood.

Walda took a step back, hand that had previously been steadying her going to her chest. What was this? Was there an assassin in the castle?

The body, impossibly, groaned, and Walda gasped. There was no way, with that much blood on the floor, that this man was still alive. “Someone!” she screamed. “Please, help! There’s…someone call the maester!” She took a step towards the fallen man. “Don’t worry. You wait here while I go get help.”

A weak hand reached out for her. A hand missing several fingers.

“I’ll be right back,” she promised.

“Don’t.” A head of shockingly white hair untucked itself from the man’s fetal position. “He’ll…”

“Reek.” She stopped her retreat and came back to him, flapping her arms as she tried to think of what to do. She supposed she might have looked like a great chicken to anyone passing by. “Oh, Reek, who did this to you?”

As if she didn’t know. Many people thought the new Lady Bolton was dim or, at the very best, naïve. But she wasn’t. She certainly didn’t have a maester’s mind, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t see what was right in front of her.

At first, she had to admit, she’d thought Reek was one of Ramsay’s servants. Roose had introduced him that way and told her not to pay him any mind. She’d thought he was slow, crippled, possibly from an accident, what with the way he hobbled behind his master. But then she’d noticed the way his fingers kept disappearing, the way new bruises and cuts would form on his body. The way the poor boy never seemed to bathe, but accumulated filth until you could smell him approaching.

Of course, now he just smelled like blood. It clung in the air, so heavy that Walda could taste it. The baby in her belly kicked—it did not like certain smells—and her stomach threatened to empty itself all over the hallway. She fought it down.

“Reek, sweetie—” Calling him sweetie, as if they’d ever interacted. “—I’m going to go fetch the maester.”

“No.” He was still reaching out for her. “Don’t. Not…s’possed to.”

“But you’re hurt!”

He shook his head, and with the movement she could see that was a large gash on his forehead, which seemed to be the source of the puddle. “He’ll be…angry.”

“I can’t just leave you here.”

He lowered his head to the ground, laying his cheek in the pool of his own blood. “Leave me.” His eyes were absolutely dead.

“I can’t. You’ll die.”

“S’not as bad as it looks.”

She didn’t know if he was talking about his head wound or dying. Either way, she wasn’t going to leave him to bleed out. She shrugged off her shawl and painstakingly knelt down—well, more like squatted down. It was awkward with her small passenger throwing off her balance.

His eyes widened in horror. “What are you doing?”

“I will bandage your wound and then go fetch the maester.”

“No.” He recoiled from her when she reached out with her shawl. “You’ll—you shouldn’t trouble yourself, m’Lady. Reek is no one. No one that deserves your trouble.”

“I will say who deserves my trouble.” He couldn’t pull away too far, and she was able to wipe the edge of her shawl against the wound. In the few seconds before new blood welled up, she could see that the gash was wide and had cut to the bone. If she had to guess, she’d said his head had made contact with a stair or other sharp edge.

He didn’t even react—not a flinch, not a wince. But he did continue to protest. “You’ll get in trouble. If he finds out you’ve helped me…”

“Shush.” She gathered the shawl up and began wrapping it around Reek’s head.

“Please, m’Lady.” He grabbed her hand, trying to stop her. “He hates you already.”

“You think I’m a stranger to people hating me?”

“You don’t understand.” His gaze flickered to her stomach. “If it’s a boy…he’ll… He’s already killed one brother.”

Walda’s breath caught in her throat. That couldn’t be true. Ramsay was…uncouth, yes. No, most definitely. A boy who enjoyed the discomfort of others in civilized settings and the outright pain of them whenever he could get away with it, as evidenced by the broken body at her feet. She could even believe he was the butcher some of the servants said he was, that he tortured and raped and killed. But not…not his own brother. Ramsay wasn’t…a kinslayer, was he?

“Please,” Reek said miserably. “Just leave me.”

She puffed out her cheeks and tried to tie the bandage again.

“M’Lady, I don’t want you—”

“If what you say is true,” she said, cutting him off—how unladylike! It sent a small thrill through her body—“then it doesn’t matter if I help you or not. Ramsay has already made up his mind about me.”

“Why are you—?”

“Do you know, Reek,” she again interrupted, “you are the only person who has been so honest with me.” She made one loop with the fabric, then started on another. He whimpered when she pulled it tight. “I know, sweetheart, I know. But I’ve got to stem this bleeding.”

“You should let me bleed out.”

She made a second loop and tied the whole thing off. She had to admit, he did look a bit off, with patches of white hair sticking out from her haphazardly-tied bandage. Like an old man wearing a turban. Of course, he was an odd-looking creature in his own right.

“Good,” she said, satisfied. “Now, you wait here, don’t move a muscle, and I’ll…” She grunted as she tried to stand. The extra weight made it difficult. Nay, impossible. After a second failed attempt, she allowed herself to sink to the floor and sat back against the wall, panting. “Or mayhaps I’ll stay with you until help arrives. My handmaidens will discover that I’m missing soon and come looking for me.”

She reached out and stroked the top of his head. She had to admit, it was not very pleasant. The hair was matted and…dirty. But she used to pet the mangy dogs that seemed to roam every empty hall of the Twins when she was a child, even when her mother told her to stop. She couldn’t help herself.

Reek didn’t protest, though he looked like he wanted to. Instead, he stared at some point on the wall above her. After a minute or two, his eyelids began to droop.

“Reek, you’re the only one who’s been honest with me,” she said to break the silence. “What do you think I should do? About Ramsay?”

“You should try to stay out of his way.”

“He’s my son. I can’t very well ignore him.”

Reek closed his eyes.

“Do you think Roose will protect me?”

“Ramsay is afraid of him,” Reek said. “But Lord Bolton is…he will die before you.”

“But perhaps by then…he will have changed his mind?”

Reek didn’t answer.

“What _should_ I do?”

“Run,” Reek said. “Take your babe and run.”

“Where would I go?”

“South. Back to the Twins. Far away from Ramsay.” A tear slipped from his eyelashes. Unlike the hair on his head, they were surprisingly dark. Long. “He might let you go…”

“Do you think so?”

Reek didn’t answer. He seemed to be rethinking his original response.

Silence stretched for several more minutes, until it was interrupted by the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. Heavy footsteps, followed by a, “Re~ek.” Reek whined and flinched under her touch. Ramsay bounded up the stairs, a mischievous look on his face, but stopped short at the top step when he saw the two of them.

“Mother.” He forced a smile. “What are you doing? Is my manservant bothering you?”

“Not at all,” she replied.

Though still smiling, his countenance was dark. His hands were clenched firmly at his sides. “Well, come now, you don’t need to dirty your hands with the likes of him.”

“It’s no bother. He needs a maester though.”

Ramsay’s lip twitched. “He’s fine. He’s taken much worse. Got kicked in the head by a horse when he was little. No brains left to scramble. Now, uh…” He took a step forward. “You can take your hands off him.”

Walda met his gaze. Which, she could tell, startled him. “Go fetch the maester.”

Ramsay’s face turned pink, and Reek gripped her dress.

“Let me help you up, Mother.” He took a step forward, then paused. “Well, perhaps we will need _several_ people to help you up. Shall I go fetch the Boys?”

“You shall go fetch the maester,” Walda repeated. “Or are you disobeying your Mother’s orders, Ramsay?”

His face turned from pink to red. His jaw worked as he ground his teeth together. “I think, perhaps, Mother,” he began through gritted teeth, “that you are a bit overwrought from your condition.” He took a step forward. “Should you not be in _bed_?”

“I wanted to go for a walk.”

“Well, perhaps next time you’ll inform me. There are many interesting places to walk around the Dreadfort. Quiet, secluded walks where no one would ever, ever bother you. Because they wouldn’t think to look for you there.” He forced his lips to part, revealing rows of enormous teeth. “I could show them to you. I could show them to you now, if you want.”

“Lady Bolton!”

Ramsay jumped back as if he’d been caught with his hand in the alms basket, as Walda’s chamber maids came running down the hall.

“Lady Bolton, are you alright?”

“Quite fine.”

“Here, my Lady, let me help you up.”

“I’m fine, Jez, quite fine,” she said, ignoring that way Ramsay smirked when it took both of her chamber maids to get her to her feet. “But I have something I want you to do. I want you to go find Maester Tybald. Tell him that Reek has been injured and requires assistance.”

Jez looked to Reek, scrunching up her nose. “Yes, my Lady.”

“And you, Hellicent, I want you to start drawing up a bath. And have the servants set up a pallet for Reek in my room.”

“In your room, my Lady?”

“No,” Ramsay said, placing himself between Walda and the girls. “I forbid it. Reek sleeps in the kennels.”

“And _I_ say he sleeps in my room.”

“You have no right.”

Walda pulled herself to her full height. “Shall we bring this matter before your father?”

Ramsay’s fists shook. His eyes bulged. He might very well have struck her, but then he looked to the chamber maids, watching him uncertainly, and took a deep breath. “Forgive me, Mother. I spoke out of turn.”

“Oh, that’s quite alright, Ramsay. You are forgiven.”

He turned and stalked back down the stairs.


	8. Washing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credence Graves said: 
> 
> _Ramsay’s away hunting and Roose orders the boys to bathe and clean up Reek while he's away._
> 
> Can be read as a sequel to the previous chapter.

“No, no, no, no, no!”

Damon was glad to drop the squirming thing into the tub. Reek was hardly more than a pile of bones wrapped in skin, and yet he somehow managed to create a splash that sent water everywhere. He also managed to bang his head on the lip of the tub, which had the added benefit of dazing him and getting him to shut the fuck up for a few moments.

“Careful!” Skinner hissed. “You don’t want Ramsay to come back to find we’ve bathed _and_ killed his pet.”

“Or just scrambled his brains,” Alyn suggested. “Not that anyone’d be able to tell.”

Reek had regained his sensed and was trying to crawl out of the tub, crying, “No, no, no,” again, and it was getting. Really.Fucking.Old. Damon grabbed his scrawny shoulders and pushed him back in. And down, down, until his head was submerged. Reek fought back—on instinct, on blind obedience to his master’s standing orders, who knew?—but he was no match. A young girl could probably have held him under. Only when his struggles ceased did Damon let him back up to breathe.

He took in a huge gulp of air, while Damon grabbed the back of his neck. “No more struggling, or I _will_ drown you. Understand?”

“Please,” Reek gasped. “I’m not supposed to—Ramsay will be very angry.”

“We know!” Skinner fairly screamed. “You think we _want_ to be in here, cleaning the shit off of you?”

“Lord Roose’s orders,” Alyn said morosely.

“Lord Roose’s _cunt wife’s_ orders,” Damon corrected, reaching for a rag. He dipped it in the water and wrung it out, pretending it was Reek’s neck. “This is our punishment as much as yours, Reek.”

“What? For using her chamber maids in our hunt?”Alyn kicked over the bucket used to carry warm water from the fire to the tub. None of them gave a shit if the water was warm or not. And judging by the slightly blue tinge of Reek’s skin, it wasn’t too warm at all. “That was Ramsay’s idea, not ours.”

Damon grunted in agreement, lathered up some soap, and began scrubbing Reek’s head. Reek whined at the rough treatment, as Damon scrubbed so hard that fistfuls of the white, straw-like hair came away.

“What’s the matter?” Damon laughed. “Going to miss all the lice in your hair?”

Reek whimpered like a little bitch.

Damon looked over his shoulder, to where Alyn was kicking the bucket back and forth between his feet and Skinner was just lounging on his chair. “Would you two get your useless asses over here and _help_ me?”

“No way,” Alyn said. “When Ramsay gets back, we can say _you’re_ the one who did it. _We_ didn’t do anything.”

“Smart.” Damon curled his lip. “He might even believe it. Unless he asks his father, who specifically sent the _three_ of us to do this fucking job. In which case he’ll just think you’re lying. And me…” He shrugged. “I’d rather take my licking for doing what I was told to do than lying about it.”

Alyn frowned, but Skinner hopped to his feet right away. “He’s right, Alyn. The sooner we get this done with, the more time we have to come up with a passable excuse.”

Skinner knelt down next to the tub and shoved Reek forward, pressing him against the side of the tub so that his back was exposed. “I’ll get this,” he announced, and began scrubbing. None too gently, judging by Reek’s screams as the rough cloth was dragged over his healing skin.

New skin was peeled away, and soon the water was red with blood.

“Skinner, you dumb fuck,” Damon said. “You’re making everything worse.”

“It’s just blood,” Skinner said back, still working while Reek writhed, screaming and begging him to stop. He sounded like he was being flayed all over again. “Unless you think blood is worse than shit.”

Damon rolled his eyes, then looked back at Alyn. “You going to help us or what?”

Alyn sighed and kicked the bucket away. “Fine. What else needs cleaning?”

“His arse,” Skinner suggested.

Alyn pulled a face. “You _seen_ what goes in there? I’m not touching that.”

“He doesn’t need to be that clean,” Damon said. “Just…get his legs and stuff.”

Alyn huffed as he reached into the bloody water and grabbed hold of one of Reek’s ankles. Reek yelped as he was yanked back. Water splashed everywhere. Again. Only this time it was full of blood and rinsed-off grime.

Damon wiped his face of it, furious. “I swear to the Old Gods and the New, Alyn, if Ramsay asks, I’ll tell him this entire thing was _your_ idea.”

“Whatever. Pass a rag.”

Together, with the three of them contorting Reek into shapes he really wasn’t meant for—what else was new?—they managed to get the top layers of filth off of him. He cried and whined the whole time, muttering quietly to himself as his lips turned blue.

“I think that’s as good as we’re going to get it,” Damon announced. “If Roose’s cunt wife has a problem with it, she can just wash you herself.”

Reek let out a choked sob of relief as the other Boys stopped their scrubbing. With the dirt and blood mixed together, the water was now rust-colored.

Damon lifted him by the armpits, shaking him out like he was a bit of laundry, while Alyn and Skinner worked on dumping the dirty water out the window. He carried the violently shivering creature to Skinner’s chair, where the towel was draped over the back of it. He deposited Reek in the chair and began patting him down.

Reek allowed it, submissively hanging his head as Damon dried his feet, his arms, his torso, even between his legs. But when it came time to do his back, he jumped up and cried, “No, please, no. I can’t—just let it dry on its own.”

“We need to get you back in your clothes before Ramsay gets back,” Damon said.

“I—I don’t mind getting back into my clothes wet.”

“So you can catch your death?” Damon shook his head. “Just take it like a man.”

Alyn and Skinner had to tackle him and hold him down while Damon ran the towel over his back. The cotton came away red and revealed where Skinner had lived up to his name and peeled away patches of recently flayed skin with his sloppy scrubbing. Blood bubbled up and Reek cried and Damon just grunted in disgust.

“You probably should have dried his hair first,” Alyn said, rather unhelpfully.

Damon wadded up the blood- and water-soaked towel with a curse. “Let him sit by the fire for a few minutes. It’s not like he’s got much hair left anyway.”

They pulled the chair up close to the fire. Reek hugged himself tight. It sounded like his bones were knocking together as he shook, or maybe that was just his broken teeth chattering. Either way, it was irksome, so Damon grabbed the fur rug off the floor and draped it over his shoulders. Reek clutched it like a lifeline and, staring into the fire, murmured, “Thank you.” So soft it might have just been a trick of Damon’s ears.

Alyn and Skinner shot him questioning looks. “Going to get blood all over that thing.”

Damon rubbed Reek’s arm through the rug, working some warmth back into him. “Hey,” he said with a shrug, “I figure we’re all in deep shit as it is when Ramsay gets back. What’s one rug going to change?”

“That’s right,” Skinner said, sitting down on the floor. “All of us. Everyone in this room. When Ramsay gets back…”

He didn’t finish. Didn’t need to.

All of them joined Reek in gazing deep into the fire. Waiting for Ramsay to get back.


	9. Entrapping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dan the spicy bandit said: 
> 
> _I don't know if it’s been done before but what about a Silence of the Lambs type thing with Ramsay as Buffalo Bill and Fat Walda as one the poor girls and Buffalo Ramsay is going to make a woman suit out of her (Don't know who Theon would be. Precious the poodle?)_
> 
> I hope this is close to what you envisioned. I kinda latched onto the idea of Reek as Precious. XD

Reek stared down into the hole. The woman in the hole stared back up at him.

_Not supposed to be this close. Master will be angry._

She sniffed and wiped at her cheeks and stood. “Please,” she called up to him. “You have to help me.”

Reek shrank away from the edge.

“No! Don’t go. Please. I know he’s keeping you here too. I’ve heard how he hurts you. If you help me, I’ll help you.”

_You can’t help._

“If I don’t get both of us out of here, I’ll come back. With the police.”

Reek shook his head.

The woman—he didn’t know her name, he never knew any of their names—looked at him with concern. It was wasted concern. She should be more worried about herself. “What’s the matter? Can you not speak?”

Reek shook his head no. Speaking was something people did, and Reek was not a person.

“I’m sorry.”

_Don’t be. Not for me. Yourself, yourself._

“But you do understand?”

He nodded, hesitantly.

“Can you help me?”

He shook his head. _No, no, don’t ask. They always ask._

“You can’t? Or you won’t?”

_It’s the same thing, isn’t it?_

“You’re scared of him.”

_You should be too_.

“I know. I know you’re scared. But he’s just going to keep hurting you.”

_It’s what I deserve_.

“We need to help each other. We can escape if we work together.”

She didn’t understand. He’d _tried_ to escape. So long ago now that he could barely remember it. Except for the burn marks on his back and his missing toes. He’d tried to help another girl. Kyra. He knew her name because she was the first. He’d never learned any of their names after that. Learned it didn’t matter anyway.

“My grandfather’s an important businessman with ties to the FBI. I know he’s looking for me right now. If you help me escape, I’ll bring the FBI back here. They can _help_ you!”

_No, they can’t. They can’t because you’ll never get in contact with them. You’ll never escape_.

Reek began to retreat.

“Please! Please help me. If you don’t…” She wiped her nose with the back of her arm. “I can’t die here. I—I lied.” She slumped back against the curved wall of the well, sank down to the dirt floor. “Nobody cares about me, that I’m gone. My grandfather isn’t looking for me. He doesn’t even know that I exist, probably.” She buried her face in her hands. “I just don’t want to die.”

Reek wished he could comfort her, but any sort of hope he tried to give her would be a lie. And that last time he’d lied, Master had used a hot iron on his tongue. So instead he crawled back to his dog bed in the corner, where his chain was bolted to the wall.

He curled up and listened to her sobbing down in the well. It echoed upwards off the stones and filled the entire room above. It could go on for days. Reek knew from experience. Eventually it would stop as the women weakened from hunger, or as they learned to accept their fates. He was looking at a few of them now, draped over a mannequin in the opposite corner. He didn’t know which bits were Kyra. She hadn’t given Master very much leather, and he’d been angry about that.

“Please,” he heard the new woman call. “I don’t even know your name.”

_Reek. It rhymes with weak_.

“My name is Walda.”

_Please don’t tell me_.

“Walda Frey. I-I’m not from the city. I took a train three hours to the city to meet my boyfriend.”

_Please don’t tell me. I don’t want to know_.

“We met online. He…he told me he didn’t mind that I was a…a bigger girl. I was so scared to show him my picture, because on the last dating site I was on, men would always lose interest when they saw them. But he…he said I was beautiful.”

_He said that to me too_.

“He begged me to come visit him, so we could make our relationship official. He said he would pick me up at the train station and show me around town. He couldn’t wait to introduce me to his friends. He said they were going to be so jealous.”

_You were too trusting. Too desperate_.

“He said he loved me.”

_I don’t blame you. I was desperate and trusting too_.

Slowly, Reek crept back to the edge of the well. Master would be gone for several hours yet. He was probably online as they spoke, talking to the next woman who would end up in the well. There was never a shortage of them.

Walda smiled when she saw him peering down, a kind of sad, relieved smile. “Are you going to help me?”

Reek took the slack from his chain and began feeding it down the well. Pulled that far from his little cubby, it didn’t have a lot, but enough that if he sat at the edge of the pit, it was long enough for her to grab hold of it.

“Are you sure?” she asked, when she shouldn’t be asking questions, she should just be using the opportunity to free herself. “I don’t want to choke you.”

He showed her how he intended to use his knee as a pulley to soften the force it would put on his collar.

She seemed to understand, but still hesitated. “I’m not sure I’m strong enough to pull myself out.”

And he wasn’t strong enough to pull her out, but if they pooled what little strength they had, perhaps it could work. He jangled the chain to get her moving.

She took a deep breath. “Okay.” And gripped the chain. “Tell me when you’re ready.”

He nodded, and she pulled on the chain.

The pit was fifteen feet deep. That was fifteen feet she had to be lifted. Her weight put considerable strain on his knees and arms. Nothing to do with her actual weight—a hundred-pound girl would have been just as painful. The first three feet were the hardest. Getting her _off_ the ground was the hardest. But then she could brace her feet against the wall, and that helped.

Slowly, she pulled her way up the chain, and he pulled the chain with her on it. Like reeling in a fish. She sobbed the whole way, whimpering that she couldn’t do it, she was losing her grip, she was going to fall. But for all that, when she got high enough to grasp the ledge with her own arms, she was able to haul herself up and out.

Reek watched her, breathing heavily from the ordeal and trying to work feeling back into his legs. The chains had left noticeable marks on his knees. Walda took a moment to recover as well, but then she was on her feet, pulling at his collar. “How do I get this off?”

Reek shook his head.

“Is there a key?”

Again, Reek shook his head.

“I can’t leave you.”

_You can. You should_.

She gnawed on her lips. “I will be back,” she promised. “I’ll come back with the cops and the FBI and the CIA and anyone else I can get.”

Reek smiled sadly.

She knelt and hugged him. “Thank you.” Then she was up again and running for the stairs.

Reek didn’t watch her go. He crawled back to his bed and listened to the sound of her bare feet on the concrete steps. He hoped she would make it, but she probably wouldn’t. He’d probably just sped up her death. He probably shouldn’t have helped her, but maybe it was better this way.

Whatever the outcome, whether Walda Frey escaped or not, whether she did come back with the police, Reek knew it wouldn’t do him any good.

He curled in on himself and waited for his Master’s return.


	10. Progressing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HaileyInWonderland said: 
> 
> _I just gonna keep my request simple and say: Thramsay + public humiliation_
> 
> Simple, yet insidious.

They were having a feast. A celebration for a successful hunt.Though, hopefully, not of the human kind. Ramsay said he’d had the kill butchered himself for the feast. Reek hoped it wasn’t human. Because it smelled delicious and he was hungry enough to eat it.

Not that Ramsay would let him. He was content to have his pet chained to the far side of the wall, where he could smell the feast but where the guests, with any luck, would not smell him. He did not mind going unnoticed, except that he was so very…hungry. He had not eaten in days. And the food, so close.Even if it _were_ human…

Someone looked up. Little Walder. Little shit. Reek hoped his fingers were still stinging from where Kyra had bitten him. It served him right, teasing a dog with food. He glanced up now, straight at Reek, and a look of smoldering hate crossed his face. Either stupidity or superstition made the twat hold Reek responsible. Holding his bleeding hand, crying, “You made them! You made them attack me!” Ramsay had not been in a mood placate him and had cuffed him across the back of his head. For which Walder also blamed Reek.

Staring back at him now, Reek saw a smile spread across the boy’s face. “Ramsay!” he called, loud enough that Reek could hear him from where he was chained.

Ramsay ignored him, busy with a plate piled high with meat and bread and potatoes.

“Ramsay!” Little Walder tried again. “Lord Bolton!”

That got Ramsay’s attention. “What?” he shouted back.

Little Walder stood and scurried to Ramsay’s chair, where he cupped a hand to his mouth and leaned in to whisper something in Ramsay’s ear. Ramsay listened with an intent look on his face. And all the while, staring straight at Reek.

Finally, Walder stepped back, eyes wide in anticipation.

Ramsay took another bite of his food, then nodded and stood. Walder clapped his hands with glee, and Reek’s empty stomach dropped even lower in his gut.

Everyone stopped eating to watch as Ramsay crossed the room. The lone musician stopped plucking at his untuned lute. Everything fell silent, except for the snuffling of the hounds under the table.

“Re~ek.”

Reek shrank back, but Ramsay grabbed hold of his chains and yanked him forward.

“Don’t be like that, Reek. I bet you’re very hungry.”

Reek whined in response.

“Well? Aren’t you?”

“Y-yes, my Lord.”

“Good.” Ramsay undid the locks on the chains and began dragged Reek forward. “Little Walder has just told me how much he wants to see your training progress. So, I’m going to give you the opportunity to earn your meal.”

“Thank you, my Lord.”

For the occasion of the feast, the long tables were fit together to form a long U. Ramsay dragged Reek to the center of this U and deposited him there. “Here’s your first command. Stay, Reek.”

Reek did, too terrified to do anything but. He did glance from side to side at the guests who wrinkled their noses in disgust.

Ramsay wentto the head of the table and reached across for his plate. Then brought it around and held up a bit of meat. “Very good, Reek. Here you go.” He tossed the meat. It landed on the floor at Reek’s feet.

Reek stared at it.

“Go on, Reek. That’s your first reward.”

Reek bent to pick it up, but Ramsay clucked his tongue.

“Dogs do not eat with their hands.”

Reek stopped, arm outstretched.

“Do you have hands, Reek?”

“No, my Lord.” Reek dropped to his knees, then hands and knees.

“Very good. You may eat.”

Ignoring the startled laughter of the guests—it was quiet and muffled anyway, most probably didn’t know what to make of this spectacle—he stooped and picked up the meat with his mouth. Chewing was painful with his broken teeth, but he cried in happiness all the same. Was the meat overcooked? Gamy? Tender? Did it matter? He swallowed and felt every inch of relief as it went down.

Ramsay smiled indulgently. “Are you ready to show your training to these fine lords and ladies?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Then why are you still wearing your clothes?”

Reek stared up at him in horror.

“Do dogs wear clothes?”

“N-no, my Lord.”

“Then _why_ are you still wearing clothes?”

Someone guffawed.

Reek sat up on his haunches. “Please, my Lord, I don’t—”

“Do dogs talk back to their masters?”

“No, my Lord, but—”

“Are you done showing us your training?” Ramsay waved another bit of meat with his fingers. “Did you get full so quickly?”

“No, my Lord. I’ll…” He stood on shaky legs and started working his arms through the sleeves of his ratty shirt.

One of the guests gasped in disbelief, and several others began giggling nervously. Ramsay just watched, an amused smirk on his face as Reek pulled his shirt off. Really, it more or less came away in rags and left his back and chest bare for them to see. All the cuts and bruises and welts and whip marks. Every knob of his spine and line of his ribs. Reek matched his master’s gaze. He had not looked at his own body in some time, bad enough that he was forced to live in it.

“The breeches, Reek.”

Of course. Reek undid his rope belt. Lifted one knee to get the pant leg off, then the other. He knew the exact moment the guests saw it, because it came with a single, sharp intake of breath. He let his pants fall away, then went to his hands and knees again. Better to hide the emptiness between his legs.

“Very good,” Ramsay said. “Here you go.” He tossed the bit of meat.

Reek bent his head and took it without thinking.

Ramsay turned back to Little Walder, who was bouncing up and down in anticipation. “What would you like to see him do?”

“Make him bark!”

“Alright.” Ramsay pulled a bit of gristle from the plate. “Reek, bark.”

Reek wasn’t sure how to, but he opened his mouth and imitated as best he could the bark of a dog. It sounded strangled, and the guests roared with laughter.

“I don’t know, Walder. Did that sound like a bark to you?”

“No, not at all.”

Reek tried again, drawing from as deep in his lungs as he could. What came out might charitably pass as a bark. Perhaps a wild dog’s bark.Certainly not the bark of any of Ramsay’s hounds.

Ramsay sighed and tossed him the meat. “We’ll work on that one.”

Reek took the meat.

“What else, Walder?”

 “Um…could he roll over on his stomach?”

“I don’t know. Can you, Reek?”

Reek looked around at the guests and whined low in his throat. Rolling over would give them a better look at…

“You can stop this whenever you like, you know. Just say the word and you can go back to your spot if you wish.” Ramsay held up the entire cut of the meat—it looked like a flank of some kind. “If you don’t feel like eating anymore.”

Reek took a shuddering breath, then got down on the floor. He rolled over onto his back, arms stiff at his side, legs clamped together. For all the good it did. The guests saw anyway, judging from the hushed whispering.

“Have him roll over like a proper dog,” Walder cried. “With his legs in the air and all that.”

“Yes, Reek.” Ramsay helped himself to a generous bite of the flank and said through the mouthful, “Roll over like a proper dog.”

Reek thought his limbs might tremble too hard for it to be done, but he forced them up anyway. Arms stretched up above him, legs as straight as they would go, which left them slightly parted. In this position, it was difficult to not look down the length of his own body, but he persevered. He could stare up at the buttressed ceiling instead.

“Good boy, Reek.” Ramsay licked his fingers clean, then tore off another bite and tossed it to the floor.

In a flash, Reek had righted himself and taken the morsel in his mouth.

Ramsay released a loud belch, and pounded his chest with his fist. “Ah, pardon. Does anyone else want to suggest a trick for my dog to do?”

“Can he maybe…?” A woman started to speak up, but then stopped. The man to her right nudged her, and she laughed and waved him off, face bright red. As if _she_ were the embarrassed one here. “Can he balance a treat on his nose?”

“We’ll see.” Ramsay set his plate down and came forward, brandishing the next bit of meat like a weapon. “Tilt your head back.”

Reek did, even though it exposed his throat. He held very still while Ramsay set the tidbit on the bridge of his nose. But alas, it wouldn’t balance and instead ended up on his cheek.

Ramsay tsk’d. “Looks like he can’t.” He took the meat away. “No treat for that one.”

Reek felt like sobbing but held perfectly still.

“Anyone else?” Ramsay held his arms wide, inviting anyone to throw their suggestions his way.

“I got one.” Reek’s throat constricted when Skinner spoke up. “Real easy one, too.” He scratched his chin, drawing the moment out. “Have him wag his tail.”

Someone in the audience guffawed.

Ramsay contemplated it a moment. Or pretended to. “I’m afraid my dog hasn’t got a tail.”

“Sure he does.” Skinner held aloft a long wooden spoon.

Reek swallowed.

Ramsay took the spoon and tapped it against the palm of his hand. “Tell you what, Reek. If you wear your tail and wag it for us, give us a nice little show, I’ll let you have whatever’s left on my plate.”

Reek looked at the plate, forgotten on the table. From this low vantage point, he couldn’t even be sure how much was left. One bite?Two?A whole half of the flank?

Ramsay saw his doubt and grinned. “Or you could go back to the dungeons. It’s completely up to you.”

Reek closed his eyes, savored the feeling of just the little bit of food in his stomach. Slowly, he turned around and presented himself to his master to insert the “tail.”

“Good dog.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to anyone who sent in prompts and requests. And thanks to everyone for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos. Wishing you all a Happy New Year's!
> 
> VagrantWriter

**Author's Note:**

> Requests are closed for now. Thank you to everyone for leaving a prompt.
> 
> Thanks for reading,  
> VagrantWriter


End file.
